


Four People Who Lied to John For Sherlock, and the One Time Sherlock Didn't Have To

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock lies, Thoughts of Suicide, five times fic, series two spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his Fall, all Sherlock wants to do is keep John safe. If everyone they love has to lie for him... well, he's okay with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Molly

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [四人必須替Sherlock向John撒謊，這次Sherlock自己卻不用](https://archiveofourown.org/works/635815) by [EEKWGERMANY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EEKWGERMANY/pseuds/EEKWGERMANY)



> This whole story was only meant to be around 5K, but yeah, that really didn't happen. I don't do WIPs, so this is all finished, don't worry.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. Catching typos is appreciated!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly doesn't regret helping Sherlock. No, she really doesn't. She regrets having to lie to John, until she can't even take it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after the funeral.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked. See a typo? Tell me about it! :)

**Molly**

 

“How was the funeral?”

Molly jumped when she heard that deep voice in her ear. Right behind her. She didn’t know how, but everytime she left the house, she managed to forget that Sherlock was there. In her flat. Hiding, lying low, whatever. He was there. Every day, she forgot. So every day, when she came home, she got to relive the shock of helping him fake his fall, pretending that he was dead, then seeing him not-dead. It was really starting to wear on her.

“You shouldn’t stand so close to the door,” she said. The fear paralyzing her fingers melted away and she locked the door, turning to face him. “It’s hard to pretend that you’re dead if someone sees you through the window.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “Quite.” He fell silent again and walked back to the couch. Sitting down, Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Molly wasn’t sure if that was normal Sherlock behavior, but all the same, it was disconcerting. Such a large man shouldn’t want to be so small.

“The funeral?” He asked again.

This was where Molly stopped. She’d practiced this in her head on the way back from the cemetery, but now, looking at the man himself… all her pretty words seemed to float away.

“I don’t really know how to say this,” she started.

“You’re kicking me out,” Sherlock said suddenly, interrupting her for the first time in over a week.

Ever since she helped Sherlock fake his death, she wasn’t afraid of speaking around him anymore. Not like she used to be. It wasn’t because she was less nervous around Sherlock, not at all. It was because she knew something that he held precious. She knew he was alive, a secret he hadn’t entrusted to anyone else. She had an upper hand, of sorts; she knew it, and Sherlock knew it too.

Which is why it threw Molly so much when he interrupted her. Sherlock was very aware of her upper hand (painfully so) and he did his best to respect it. In fact, not only had the former detective been on his best behavior, Molly would go as far as to say he was damn near angelic. He still deduced her day, still did annoying things—like trying to do experiments with the contents of her fridge—but it wasn’t terrible. Certainly nowhere as frustrating as John led her to believe.

Her thoughts caught at that. John. That’s why Sherlock….

“Let me explain,” Molly started again. Normally, Sherlock would tell her that he already knew, rise from the couch and stomp away to collect what few things he had there. But he didn’t. This Sherlock nodded silently and listened. Actually listened.

“You didn’t see him. I mean, I know you _can’t_ see him. And that you’re protecting him. And that’s good. It’s wonderful. That you would do all this for him, it’s, it’s great.” This wasn’t how she planned it, but the words made more sense than usual. So she kept going. And Sherlock kept listening.

“But… you didn’t see him.” Molly took a step forward. Towards the couch, towards Sherlock. “Really. You didn’t see him.

“I didn’t know what John was like before he met you, because I hadn’t met him yet.” She said. “But, we’ve talked about it. A little. Whenever you’re off being clever and tell us to get out. We go for a coffee in the hospital cantina. And we talk. Just talk.” That’s what Molly missed most: talking with John over a cup of crappy hospital coffee.

They would sit together at a little table, close enough that maybe an outsider would think it was a date. But it wasn’t. John was lovely, he really was, and if Molly didn’t know what he meant to Sherlock, she would probably ask him out. But she did know what he meant to Sherlock—that was the only reason she agreed to keep him in the dark about this—so she would never cross that line. And slowly, John had become more than a friend. Almost like a brother. A funny, confident, kind man who sat across the small table from her, fingers curled around his cup of coffee as they laughed together at whatever fool thing Sherlock had done the night before.

“Once, he told me about right after he was invalided home.” She said. “He told me that things were… empty. Nothing happened to him. He went from a war zone—heart-stopping terror and excitement all the time—to nothing. He said,” this is where she wanted to get John’s words exactly right. Sherlock would know if they were indeed John’s words. “He said that, before he met you, he was like a blank page. There was nothing there to hold his interest in life. Nothing filling him up.

“If he was a blank page before, now, he’s been… erased.” For the first time since he sat down, Sherlock moved. An imperceptible twitch of his lips, but Molly saw it. All the time she’d spent studying the beautiful lines of this man’s face, she knew when he was feeling something. He sure as hell felt something now.

“It’s in his eyes.” She kept going. Sherlock’s mouth twitched again. “I know what you’ve told me. That eyes aren’t really the window to the soul. You say hands are much more telling. But not on John.” Another small movement. A nod. Obviously, Sherlock would’ve noticed that too.

“You can see it in his eyes. What used to be there. Youused to be there. You filled him up, you and your cases,” she said. “You made it so he wasn’t blank anymore. And now, you’ve erased him as well. Because you can still see the shadows of it, maybe almost read it. Almost.”

Molly’s lips were suddenly wet. She had no idea when she started crying, only that she was. It wasn’t about to stop her. Sherlock’s eyes looked a little wet too, they were almost shining. But he wouldn’t cry. So far, she hadn’t seen him cry once. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“You erased him,” she sobbed, not even trying to hide it. “You made him so happy, and then you took it away. You did it to make him safe—I know you did. I’m not blaming you for that. But you don’t have to see him, Sherlock,” a tiny shudder wracked her body and Molly could’ve sworn she saw his hands twitch against his legs. Did some part of him think about offering her comfort?

“I do have to see him.” She said. “I have to see him, and I have to look in his eyes and see him erased. I have to see what used to be there. And,” another gasping breath and this time, Sherlock did move. Standing in front of the couch, he reached out to hold her arm. Surprisingly enough, Molly was the one to pull away. “You don’t have to see him and know you’re lying right to his face.

“I can make that hurt go away, but at the same time I can’t!” She stepped away, putting distance between her and Sherlock. Something Molly never thought she’d do. “You say that if I told him, he’d be in danger. You’re protecting him. I believe you, I really do. But you don’t have to see him. You don’t have to see him.” She kept coming back to that, but it was true. That was the worst part.

Watching John at the funeral today… back ram-rod straight, eyes forward, arm crooked for Mrs. Hudson to hold as she cried, and face absolutely blank. He was the very embodiment of a military man, a man he hadn’t been for a long time. Before Sherlock, a soldier was all that John knew how to be. With Sherlock, he was so much more. And without him… he went back to his default. The soldier. Keep calm and carry on. That was very much not the John Watson that Molly knew.

“I can’t have you here and keep lying to him.” She said, finally getting to her point. Molly wasn’t looking at Sherlock anymore. Her eyes fell closed to save her from having to see any of the tiny emotional fluctuations on Sherlock’s face. To anyone else, they were small, barely-there movements. For Sherlock, he might as well be sobbing. Molly really didn’t want to see that.

“I’m happy to help you, anyway you need. Anything you need, you can have it. I promise. Just… don’t make me lie to him like this. Don’t make me come back to the flat, every day, to find you here. I just, I can’t….” Closing her eyes wasn’t enough anymore. Turning away, the tears came in earnest now. Rolling down her cheeks, falling down onto her dress, leaving little wet marks on the fabric.

Sherlock was silent for a long time. For a second, Molly thought he might’ve gotten up and left. She wouldn’t be surprised. Sherlock had two volume settings: ear-splittingly loud, and silent as the grave. Recently, he’d been using the latter a little too often.

“I understand.”

Molly jumped again. “You-you do?” She stammered out. Turning, she chanced a look at Sherlock. He stood in front of the couch, chin tilted down just a bit too much. Normally, Sherlock stood with his head held high, chin lifted almost arrogantly so. Now, he looked sad. Dejected. For once, he was letting his body language show, speaking with his entire being. Molly was no Sherlock, but when it came to reading him, she was getting pretty good. And right now, his body screamed out “I understand,” as loud as it could.

“Could you give me a day?” He asked quietly. “I know I don’t have much to collect but… give me a day?”

“Yes,” Molly said in a small voice. For some reason, she didn’t expect Sherlock to be this reasonable.

With a tight nod, Sherlock made a move to turn. Then, he stopped. Mid-step, he froze. Slowly, he turned back, bringing his eyes up to meet Molly’s. This time, when he reached out to hold her hand, she didn’t move away. “I know what I’ve asked of you is beyond difficult. I would even say that it is beyond the bounds of normal friendship, but you still did it. And I thank you, Molly Hooper, for helping me with this. With, everything.”

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Molly’s wet cheek. Without another word, he pulled back and walked to Molly’s spare room, closing the door behind him.

He didn’t come out for the rest of the night, not even when she made dinner. That was fine, really, it was. Molly understood that he might be… conflicted right now. The woman who helped him fake his death, and therefore save the lives of everyone he loved, now kicked him out on the streets. Because her help could only go so far. She wished it could go farther, but it really couldn’t. 

The next morning, Sherlock was gone before Molly even woke up.

 


	2. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Molly kicks him out, where is Sherlock to go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still almost immediately after the funeral.
> 
> Once again, not betaed or Brit-picked. If you see a typo, I would be very glad to hear about it so I can fix it.

**Mycroft**

**  
**

The front door clanged shut behind Mycroft, shutting out the sound of the rain outside. The heavy noise rang around the empty foyer. His house staff had the night off, so there was no one else around. The large house was usually so lonely, but tonight felt worse. Worse, because….

Mycroft tried not to think of the funeral. He tried not to think about how their mother stood next to him, chin held high and proud as she watched them bury her youngest. Parents should never out-live their children, but Mrs. Holmes saw no shame in her son’s death.

Mycroft saw her, after the funeral, talking to John. Well, talking at John. All he could do was nod politely, standing at attention like the soldier he once was. Based on what Mycroft read from their lips, their mother shared John’s opinion: Sherlock did not lie.

Of course, he knew it too. He knew the truth. Everything that Jim Moriarty did to destroy his brother, and his own hand in it…. He remembered that part all too well. No, Sherlock wasn’t a fraud. But he was very, very deceased.

On her evening off, the maid usually left a freshly boiled kettle in Mycroft’s study for when he returned home. It was a nice comfort to have, but he definitely needed something stronger than tea tonight. Maybe he would be a bit vulgar and pour his scotch in with the tea.

After he was showered and put on his warmest dressing gown (Mycroft didn’t like to walk around the house like that, but tonight was… different. He blamed it on the rain) he walked back down to his study. Before he even flicked on the light, he saw a shadow moving in the dark. Wonderful, just what he needed.

“May I help you?” He kept his tone light as his fingers moved to the secret button on the wall that would summon his security. First though, he turned on the light.

Sufficed to say, Mycroft never called security. Not when the light revealed that no one other than his baby brother was sitting in his study. At his desk. In his chair. Soaked, from head to toe.

“Calling security would probably not be the best idea, Mycroft.” Sherlock said. He didn’t even look up. Didn’t even stir.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was fighting a coronary. For once, he hadn’t seen this coming. For the first time in their lives, Sherlock had actually fooled him. He believed, really, truly believed, that Sherlock was dead. For the first time, Sherlock had gotten one over on him.

No, that wasn’t the point. He couldn’t think like that. About the childish game they had been playing for far too long. No. He had to think about how Sherlock was sitting there. Mycroft oversaw all the funeral arrangements… he identified the body, he picked out the urn, he did everything. Everything. Not for one moment did he ever suspect that the body he identified was not his brother.

“How?” It was a stupid question, and Sherlock’s lips quirked up.

“Think about it, Mycroft.” He said.

The facts fell into place in less than a second. “Molly Hooper.” He sighed. Yes. It was so simple. Obvious. Why didn’t he see it before? John’s reaction… it made it all too real. Mycroft should’ve known.

Sherlock nodded. “Molly,” he said.

“Then why come to me?” Shock worn off (because really, he should’ve known) Mycroft walked over to the teapot and started pouring two cups. The second he saw Sherlock sitting there and realized how stupid he’d been to miss this, he added a large slug of scotch to his cup before turning and handing over Sherlock’s.

Mycroft sat down in one of the other chairs and waited for Sherlock to join him. He sat at the desk to make a point—he had gotten one over on his big brother, for a brief moment, he was smarter—but the point had been made. They could move on now.

Sherlock picked up the cup Mycroft left for him on the desk and swept over to the chair. Sitting across from his brother, they were equals again. Intellectually, at least.

“Why come to me?” He asked again. “If Miss Hooper was assisting you, why come here?”

“She did her part,” Sherlock said. “Now, she finds that she can’t lie to John. After the funeral, she was,” Sherlock searched for the right word. Though his own experiences with emotions were fairly limited—most having been learned in the time immediately leading up to his Fall—he did know how to categorize the emotions he saw in others. That didn’t mean he wanted to betray Molly’s emotional state to his brother, who was at least partially responsible for this situation. Molly deserved better from him. “She was… uncomfortable with her part in it. Lying to John isn’t an easy thing to bear.” He knew that one from experience.

His eyes flicked up to Mycroft’s face, reading what he saw there. Nothing. That’s what he saw. His brother didn’t care about how Molly felt, he only cared about his part in this and what Sherlock had in mind for him. Why was he here? Mycroft betrayed him… what could bring Sherlock to trust him with this secret?

“But you, brother dear,” Sherlock continued. His voice went up in pitch, using that fake happy tone that he’d perfected around age fourteen. Making people think he was being nice was a specialty of Sherlock’s. “You have no problem lying to John. You’ve been doing it for over a year. Probably since the day I met him. Lying is your job, and considering you’re the one who put me in this situation,” the one where he needed to lie to the man he trusted more than life, “I think you should have no problem helping me through it.

“I’m not asking for much. Just a place to stay when I need it, and your assurances that John will remain ignorant of this.” Long, slender fingers drummed against the arm of the chair. “And of course, your continued surveillance of him. This is all I ask.” Fingers stopped tapping and Sherlock leaned forward, those eyes—suddenly so cold—glaring out at Mycroft. But his face was perfectly calm. “And you will give it to me. You can’t justify denying me.” Not after what you did to me, went unsaid.

The silence stretched out for what seemed like forever. Sherlock stared, driving his point home. He really didn’t need to do that, Mycroft knew that he was trapped. Trapped by his little brother. Not that he wouldn’t help him—he’d never turned Sherlock down yet—but his hand in all of this prevented him from… extracting similar favors. He had no right to ask Sherlock for anything in return. No choice but to give him everything he asked for.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Of course.”

With a small nod, Sherlock sat back in the chair and took up his tea again. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

They finished their tea in silence, and then Mycroft led Sherlock up to an empty room. “Though my staff are very discreet, I feel it is best that they not know anything about you. So you will have to take care of all your own bedding and laundry. And you will probably have to go down to the kitchen at night for your meals.”

Sherlock nodded. “Acceptable.”

“Yes.” Then nothing but silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the idea of Mycroft being fooled by Sherlock's fake-death is a bit out there, but really, I wanted Sherlock to have one over on Mycroft. For what he did, Mycroft deserves to feel like an idiot. He deserves to know that Sherlock beat him. Just once, I wanted Sherlock to get the better of him.


	3. Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's a fraud, yes, but what about Lestrade? The Detective Inspector trusted Sherlock's word, so what happens to him when that word is thought to be nothing but a lie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about six months since Sherlock faked his death.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked. Finding of typos will be rewarded. :)

**Lestrade**

 

He really didn’t care what the papers (or Sally, or Anderson) said, Lestrade didn’t for one minute believe that Sherlock was a fraud. It was just too impossible. All those cases… in order to arrange everything—every murder, kidnapping, faked suicide, everything—Sherlock would have to be the consulting criminal. He would have to be the one with the vast network of criminal agents. And if he had that, why would he go out of his way to make himself the hero? If he truly had all that power, why use it to give someone else the credit?

It didn’t make sense, not in the least. Lestrade may not have Sherlock’s genius, but he wasn’t an idiot. He had to have some sort of intelligence to make it to Detective Inspector. Well, former Detective Inspector.

After the papers, and Sherlock’s suicide, everything fell down on him. Every case he ever solved with Sherlock’s help, every criminal put behind bars. They all had to be looked at again. The evidence was “tainted” and every conviction he made was being put back through the courts, and then finally, overturned. Dozens of guilty men and women were being put back on the streets because of Lestrade’s trust in Sherlock. And Greg himself? Earlier this morning, he was informed that Detective Inspector seemed to be a job he didn’t understand. If he liked, he could stay with the force. As a PC.

Which is what led him to his position now: standing on Mycroft’s doorstep, the contents of his office still in the box under his arm. He couldn’t even make it home. Not after the afternoon he’d had. Hell, not after the month he’d had.

How was he going to tell his wife? (Ex-wife.) They were barely speaking to each other and now, this might just give her reason to take the kids away. He had them Monday and Tuesday, and every other weekend. He couldn’t stand the thought of seeing them any less than he already did.

As he drove through London—going anywhere but home—Lestrade’s mind buzzed with what to do. The only thing he knew how to be was a cop, and now he didn’t even have that. The offer to put him back down to a Police Constable wasn’t generous like they’d said, it was a death sentence. Either they’d put him out in the dangerous parts of the city to get sent to an early grave, or they’d send him to the evidence warehouse, to live out the rest of his days alone and in shame. Greg didn’t think he could do that. So what was the answer?

It surprised him that Mycroft answered his own door. “Good to see you, Detective Inspector.” He said with a smile and a step back.

Lestrade sighed. “Not anymore,” he stepped into the house. “Look,” he really didn’t know what he was going to say, just that this was his only option. “We both know that Sherlock didn’t lie. But my superiors believe the papers. Who wouldn’t? Anyone who didn’t know the man wouldn’t believe him. And because I do, I no longer have a job.”

Mycroft said nothing, just let Greg go. He fully prepared himself to be cut off, shut out, maybe even ignored. Mycroft had no loyalty to Lestrade, they had just one thing in common: Sherlock.

Lestrade really didn’t expect to get this far, so his next words were not planned. Dropping his chin, he looked down at his shoes. “I know you have a security force of sorts, and well….” Christ, what was he even doing here? There was no way Mycroft would help him.

All the same, his mouth kept going. “Anything you can give me would be great. Beyond great. I just. I’ll take anything. Private security. One of the guards you have watching this place.” It was lower than a PC, but at least working for Mycroft would have some sort of dignity. He hoped. “Anything,” he whispered.

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing. After so long, Greg dared to lift his eyes up to look at the man. Was he going to be thrown out now? For asking something like this? Not many had the stones to ask a favor of Mycroft Holmes, a man who occupied two-thirds of the British government. Lestrade probably didn’t even have the guts, but this was his only option.

“Private security,” Mycroft said suddenly. “Yes, I could use a man of your talents.” The taller man took a step towards Lestrade, his hand outstretched. “No matter what the idiots at New Scotland Yard think, you are a fine detective. I could use you.”

His hand slid into Mycroft’s before he even knew he’d moved. It was just… unbelievable. “You…” he started. “You have something for me?” Mycroft had something. He wasn’t useless. Lestrade hadn’t been this happy in weeks.

“I know someone who does,” Mycroft nodded. A referral? Lestrade thought. Mycroft’s word was as good as gold, but Greg’s name had been dragged through the mud, of late. So could he really sell someone on trusting him? “Follow me, please.” Then Mycroft was off, turning, walking up the grand staircase.

Lestrade hurried to catch up. “Thank you,” he said. “Really, I know you have no reason to trust me but—”

“Oh, I have every reason to trust you.” Mycroft said. “Despite what appears to be very compelling evidence, you still do not wish to go against my brother. Tell me, Lestrade, did you believe what it said in the papers? Even for one moment?” He threw a glance over his shoulder, reading the DI’s face, but kept walking up the stairs.

“No, never.” Lestrade said quickly. “I don’t care whatever this Rich Brook character said, Sherlock didn’t make it up. He was the most brilliant, most arrogant sod I’d ever met, and sometimes I hated the bastard—” Mycroft paused on the step and turned full around to look down at Greg. Those penetrating Holmes eyes focused down on him and Lestrade took a breath. “But, for all the things he was, he wasn’t a fraud. And he was never wrong.”

He stopped and took another breath, steeling himself under those judging eyes. Lestrade sensed that this was some sort of a test. A Holmes loyalty test. He knew that Sherlock and Mycroft didn’t get along, but family is family, and maybe he wanted some sign that Lestrade was with them all the way. “I’d worked with him for six and a half years. I’d seen him solve hundreds of cases. He was never wrong. Even the cases that didn’t come from the Yard, he was never wrong. How could I doubt that?”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded. “How could you doubt that?”

They reached the top landing and Mycroft turned down the corridor. Was he showing him to a room? “I don’t need a place to stay—” he started, but Mycroft’s hand was already on the handle, opening the door.

“What is it?”

Lestrade knew that voice. But no, it was impossible….

Pushing the door open all the way, Lestrade saw Sherlock. Sitting on the bed. Alive. As in, not dead. But alive.

The box of stuff from his office slipped from under Greg’s arm, falling to the floor with a muted thump. For one very long, very tense moment, he just stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back.

Any other person—any _normal_ person—would instantly feel the need to explain. ‘Oh yes, I know I’ve been dead for six months, but….’ Sherlock wasn’t normal (in the best possible way) so, naturally, he didn’t explain. He just sat on the bed. Blinking owlishly at Lestrade.

His gaze shifted over to Mycroft and suddenly, that blank look was gone. If Lestrade ever saw Sherlock angry before, this did not compare. He was absolutely livid. Glaring at Mycroft like he’d done the worst thing imaginable. Well, he probably had.

Lestrade stood there and gawked for another minute. Then, when he remembered how to work his mouth again, he tried to speak. No, voice didn’t work, too tight from shock. Shock at seeing Sherlock alive.

“I went to your funeral,” he whispered. “I stood by your grave.” Still a whisper. Greg couldn’t seem to make his voice work any louder.

Ice blue eyes shifted back to him and that glare melted away. Now that he had Sherlock’s attention, Greg found he could speak again. Loudly. “Your bloody funeral, Sherlock!” He yelled. “I stood there and watched them scatter your ashes! I stood with John and—” his voice caught in his throat. “John! What you did to him… fucking hell, Sherlock!”

Lestrade couldn’t look at him anymore. He turned, focusing on Mycroft. “You brought me up here to see this? You knew! You’ve been hiding him!”

“He didn’t help me do it.” Sherlock said suddenly. Lestrade turned and saw the man standing up from the bed. The way his eyes roved over the copper… like he was seeing a ghost. Funny, Lestrade was probably looking at him the same way. Except he felt like punching this ghost.

Turning back to Mycroft, the older man nodded. “I had no part in it.” He said.

“What is _it_?” Lestrade demanded. Gaze flicking between the brothers. No one said anything. “Someone explain this!” He growled.

“Moriarty was waiting for me on Bart’s roof.” Sherlock said. “He was Richard Brook, and he sold his lie to the press, along with my life story. Everything was true, save for the idea that I was a fraud, so everyone swallowed it.” His eyes flicked over to Mycroft, so quick that Lestrade barely caught it before they were back on him. “He told me that he had a sniper trained on you, John and Mrs. Hudson, and that if I didn’t jump, you would all die.”

A lump rose in Lestrade’s throat. “What?” He hissed.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “If I didn’t die, you would. I… I couldn’t let that happen. So I jumped. You don’t need to know the details, but I planned it out so I would survive, but the world would think I was dead.” In the first show of real emotion that wasn’t anger towards Mycroft, Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Slowly, the DI watched as his barriers came down. The walls he kept high and strong to keep himself safe… they just melted away. “You, John and Mrs. Hudson are all I have. I couldn’t let him—”

Sherlock stopped himself. Rightly so, Lestrade thought. He had the intense urge to punch the bastard, but he couldn’t, not when he looked on the verge of tears. Sherlock _never_ cried. Ever. He never showed the emotions that were better safely locked away inside of him. That he was witnessing this now….

“What about John?” He managed to whisper. “He was so wrecked at the funeral….” Greg couldn’t even describe it. Nothing more than empty. John was empty now. “Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed. “From what I’ve seen of him, he won’t last long.”

At that, Sherlock pulled his cold mask back on. Lestrade could see—literally see—his shell closing around him again. “That’s why I brought you up here,” Mycroft said from behind him. But Lestrade would not look away. Not after what he’d just seen.

Lestrade carried on like Mycroft hadn’t spoke. “You need to tell him you’re alive.” He said. “He can’t carry on like this. You need to come back.” Nevermind him. Nevermind that Sherlock’s reappearance might explain everything and might, just might, get Greg his job back. Sod all that. It wasn’t important. John was important. The ruined man Lestrade saw at the funeral, relying on his military training just to carry on to the next breath, he was important.

“I can’t tell him,” Sherlock whispered. He almost seemed sad. Almost was as close as Sherlock would probably let them see. “Moriarty might be dead, but his assassins are still out there. If I come back, any moment, there could be someone out there, ready to put a bullet in John’s head.” Pause. “Or yours, or Mrs. Hudson’s. Moriarty is targeting my only three friends in the world, and I can’t come back until I know you’re all safe.”

Leave it to Sherlock to have a damn good reason for Lestrade not to run over to Baker Street and tell John everything. If it was true, that they all still had the Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads… Sherlock was right. He couldn’t come back. Not just yet.

“What happens if he offs himself before you’re finished?” He managed to bite out. Yes, Sherlock was saving him too, and Lestrade appreciated it. But he would be damned if he had to sit by and watch John slowly kill himself with grief.

“That’s where you come in,” Sherlock took a step towards Lestrade, his eyes flicking back to his brother. “Though Mycroft puts you at a big risk by allowing you to know I’m alive, he has provided something useful.”

“What can I do?” He asked.

“Keep an eye on him.” Sherlock said. “Keep him company, keep him safe and sane. Move in with him, if that’s what it takes. I don’t care, just keep him alive.” For the barest hint of a second, the shell opened up again and Greg could see. Sherlock was worried about John. Somehow, he knew that John… might not make it.

“I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t already do. Be his friend. Go to the pub with him. Get drunk and let him pass out on your sofa. Just be with him. Give him a reason to stay. At least, long enough for me to work this out.” Sherlock swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Will you do that? Keep him safe? Just until I can come back.”

Lestrade didn’t even need to think about that. “Yes.”

 


	4. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it looks like John is about to do something really, really stupid, who can Sherlock trust? Another not-dead friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize right now. My Irene is horrible. She was so hard to write, took me forever. Please, if anyone has any suggestions about how to make her more in character, please, don't hesitate to suggest. Also, my John is... kind of sweary. So there's the warning about that.
> 
> It's been about a year and a half since Sherlock faked his death.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. Finding typos so I can fix them is not frowned upon, not in the least. :)

**Irene**

 

_FWD: I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner._

_SH_

 

For a moment, she stood frozen. She checked the number—it was his—and the sign off—his too—but… he was, dead. Wasn’t he? A dead man forwarding her own text back to her?

Yes, she was supposed to be dead too, but what reason would Sherlock Holmes have for faking his death? Reading about it in the papers early last year, and she believed every word. Not the part about him being a fraud who perpetrated all those crimes just so he could take credit for solving them, no. That she absolutely would not, could not, believe. Sherlock was a brilliant man, more than worthy of her attention—which made him special indeed—so he couldn’t be a fraud. Really, really couldn’t.

His death, though, that part she believed. That sad, sad event, she believed it all. Not because she wanted Sherlock dead (she wasn’t that petty, not after he saved her) and not because she knew Jim Moriarty could get the best of him. No. She believed in his death because of John Watson. The last entry on his blog… if Sherlock faked his death, John would surely know. And John could not fake sadness that well. Why would he want to?

The text surprised Irene so much, she hadn’t even responded when the second one came in.

 

_Mycroft’s home. 7:30_

_SH_

It took another minute to get herself together enough to reply.

 

_Yes._

_  
_

She just agreed to go back to Mycroft’s house. He thought she was dead, and she was going to walk right into his drawing room, and sit down in front of the fire, and have a nice chat with Sherlock—also supposed to be dead. For once, Irene couldn’t predict every outcome of the situation she was going to walk into. Usually, that would deter her from getting into it. It didn’t.

Donning a wig and a large pair of glasses, Irene got a taxi to Mycroft’s estate. When she arrived, the front door was standing open, a note wedged under the knocker.

 

_Dining room._

_SH_

Dining room? So, he actually wanted to have dinner?

She shook off the strange feeling that this all might be a trap laid by Mycroft (but no, it wasn’t) and walked inside. Slipping the wig off, she tucked it and the glasses into her coat pocket and walked through the large house.

Again, the doors to the dining room stood open. Two plates were laid out on the table, one at each end. But despite the emptiness in her stomach, she didn’t care about the food. Irene only cared about the tall man standing in front of the fire.

The flames cast an eerie light across his face, but there was no mistaking those cheekbones. “Sherlock?” She asked quietly.

He didn’t move. “Shut the door, if you please?” He said. “Mycroft is out, and his staff have the night off, but there’s no reason not to be cautious.”

For once, Irene did as she was told. “What’s this all about?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and looked at her, his eyes sweeping over her from head to foot. Irene expected a rapid-fire stream of deductions—everything from what she had for breakfast to where she’d been hiding over the past two years. But none of it came.

Instead, Sherlock extended an arm. “Sit, please.” Irene sat. Sherlock took his own seat only after she did. Taking the knife and fork in his hands, he gestured to the plate in front of her. “You must be hungry.”

She didn’t eat. All Irene could do was stare. Sherlock—the only man to ever best her—a man who was supposed to be dead, sat across the table from her, offering her dinner. And he just expected her to eat it without any question? When she was sitting across the table from a ghost, she was expected to just ignore it all and enjoy her dinner?

“What do you want from me?” She asked. “You wouldn’t have contacted me if you didn’t want something.” His eyes flicked pointedly down at her plate. No, Irene had already had enough of this. Whatever _this_ was.

Standing up, she backed away from the table. “There is no possible way you can convince me that you really just wanted to have dinner. You need me for something. And you won’t play games,” though she played quite a few with him. “Because we’re past all that. Tell me why you’ve brought me here!”

With a small sigh, Sherlock set down his knife and fork. Irene watched as he steepled his fingers under his chin and something in her relaxed. He was still that same man. The same too smart for his own good man. The world was still in order.

“You’re supposed to be dead as well. You’re doing a very good job of it—even Mycroft doesn’t know.” And Mycroft knew everything. “Still, you are out there without your protection.

“In your coat pocket, you have a wig and glasses. Meaning you still have enemies out looking for you. The world thinks you’re dead, yes, but you can’t just be walking around in broad daylight. You’re still hiding.

“Your continued existence depends on secrecy. Since you seem to find it such a big deal that you came out here to meet me, I’m guessing you don’t go out much. Meaning, you probably don’t eat as well as you once did.”

His hands fell away from his chin and he leaned back in his chair. “I promise that I will explain everything, but you must be hungry.” Gesturing to the plate again, Sherlock sighed. “This isn’t a trick. I’m about to ask you to do something… large. I think a good meal is a small price to pay for that. So I will ask only after you’ve eaten. Please, sit.”

For the first time, Irene let her eyes drift down to the plate of food. Her stomach gave a growl. So she sat. And she ate.

They both ate in silence. Nothing but the sounds of cutlery clinking against the China plates. Sherlock finished first, and by finished, Irene noticed that he got half way through his portion before laying his silverware across the plate and leaning back. He waited patiently as she ate.

When she was done, Sherlock stood up and walked down to the other end of the table, pulling out her chair for her. “If you’ll follow me to the study?”

They walked through the cavernous house. Ah, this room she remembered. The room where she almost got the best of the Holmes boys. Was he trying to remind her of that? No, Sherlock wouldn’t play a game like that. This was probably just convenient.

Gesturing to a chair in front of the fire, Sherlock waited for her to sit before taking his own seat. A thick, white envelope slid out of his jacket pocket, _John_ scrawled across it. Irene could’ve slapped herself. Yes, of course. She didn’t even think… this was about John. It would always be about John.

But she needed more information. And she would get it. Before she agreed to anything, Sherlock would tell her what this was all about.

“So?” She said quietly.

Sherlock didn’t even need to ask. He knew what she wanted: an explanation. It had been his plan all along to tell her, but she was very right to demand it. “A year and a half ago, when the reports of my suicide came out, the true circumstances were… misunderstood.” That was probably the kindest way he could put it. No words about Kitty and her hand in it. They were all just unwitting pawns in Moriarty’s Great Game. Pieces of the solution to the Final Problem.

“I won’t bore you with the details,” he said. “But your old friend, _Jim_ , gave me a choice. Either I died or John did. Simple as that.” Those quicksilver eyes pulled away from Irene’s face and stared off into the fire.

“But, Moriarty is dead,” she whispered.

Sherlock shrugged. “Possibly. On the off chance that he actually is, his network is still out there. Ready to pull the trigger if I ever reveal that I’m alive.” A brief flash of… something, crossed Sherlock’s face. “Until I’ve dismantled his network, John can’t know I’m alive. No one can.”

“So why tell me?” Irene asked. “I thought you were dead. If John’s life depends on secrecy, why tell me?”

“A few people know,” he said. “Mycroft, for one. And a few others.” He didn’t elaborate. “I need some people to know so that I can keep John safe. Right now, he’s only safe when I’m dead, and I need him to stay that way until I come back. I have someone watching to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid like off himself—”

“Would you blame him?” She asked. Sherlock turned and looked up at her again, his eyes utterly bewildered. “Please,” she laughed. “He loves you. You love him. There is something between you two that even I couldn’t break apart, and that takes some doing.” Finally, a smile. Just a small one, but she would take it. Any emotion on that face and she would take it.

“You were made for each other. You fit together. Take one piece out of a puzzle and the picture is ruined.” Leaning forward, Irene reached across the distance and placed a comforting hand on his knee. “What happens when the puzzle only has two pieces and one gets lost? Can you really blame him for thinking about ending it?”

He didn’t say anything at first. Then, Sherlock reached forward and placed his hand over top of hers. The slightest pressure, but it was there. He didn’t move it as he spoke.

“I have someone making sure he doesn’t do it himself, but John—in his infinite stubbornness—has found another way to manage.” Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself. Irene had never seen him do this… prepare for his own words. “I’m fuzzy on the details, but John found a way to go back to Afghanistan. He’s only training the field medics, but he’ll still be there. He’ll be in danger. If he can’t kill himself, he’s hoping that the war will.”

He sat back, hand sliding away from Irene’s. She took that as a sign to move back as well. There was only so much touch that Sherlock could deal with that wasn’t John. She’d noticed that right off: he kept the rest of the world at bay, but John always had permission to touch Sherlock. Take something from his hand, grab his mobile from inside his jacket, grab his arm, anything. John always had the permission that no one else could ever dream of getting.

“Mycroft has managed to delay his papers for me, so he isn’t committed yet, but eventually they’ll get through, and he’ll be gone. This is where you come in.” Sherlock said.

Irene understood immediately: the envelope. “You want me to appear out of the blue, with a letter from you, written just before your death and entrusted to me to deliver.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “Exactly.” Fingers moving away almost reluctantly, Sherlock handed the envelope over, letting her take it. “When you see him,” he didn’t even ask if she agreed. She did. She would do anything for Sherlock… especially if it involved saving John. “I want you to say these exact words.”

 

~

 

Sherlock and John never thought anything of leaving the flat door open. There was Mrs. Hudson downstairs, and she did so much for them, she should feel free to breeze up any time she wanted. The fact that Mycroft and Lestrade also used the open door to breeze in whenever they liked was only a small downside. Besides, they didn’t really do that anymore.

Over a year and a half since Sherlock’s Fall, and John still kept the door open. Mrs. Hudson always knocked before walking in—which happened less and less now—and Mycroft and Lestrade stopped coming by all together. Lestrade preferred to meet John somewhere out on the town (encouraging him to leave the flat and all that) and Mycroft knew that he Was Not welcome.

The day before the funeral, he stopped by 221B for the last time, just to square away the rent with Mrs. Hudson. As long as John wanted to remain at Baker Street, Mycroft would pay Sherlock’s half. He would take no objections about it.

John appreciated it, he really did. So he sent Mycroft off with a hearty thank you, now get the fuck out. He probably should be more thankful towards the man for helping him remain at 221B—because he wasn’t moving, no way, no how—but he couldn’t make himself appreciate Mycroft’s gesture. Not after the part he played in Sherlock’s Fall. Yes, he didn’t mean to do it. Yes, he never knew it would lead to that. Were either of those reasons going to make John forgive him? No. Fuck no.

Sitting at the desk in the sitting room, John stared at his computer screen. Ella suggested he keep up his blog, but that same entry was there. The one from—Christ—sixteen and a half months ago. _He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._ Those same words, the only words John could write on the subject.

This really was just one last effort (a futile effort, but an effort none the less) because he’d be off soon. Not moving out, no, Mrs. Hudson agreed to keep the flat for him when he came back. If he came back. Back from Afghanistan.

It wasn’t the post he would’ve wanted, behind the lines, teaching and not doing, but it would work. It would get him close enough to the action he missed. John only knew how to be two things: a soldier, and Sherlock’s best friend. Now that he couldn’t be the latter, the former would have to do. He would go back to Afghanistan, train other soldiers how to do the job of field medic (explain the pressure, the panic, triage under fire, more desperate than they would ever get in an A&E) and hopefully—if he was lucky—a roadside bomb would end the empty life that no one else seemed to be keen on ending.

But everyone was fine with watching him suffer, that was all good: Oh John, you can’t kill yourself, even though we all know you’re in pain and can’t stand to be here anymore, we’d rather you be alone and miserable, than dead and in peace. Really, we’re all looking out for your best interests.

Well, if he was in Afghanistan, they couldn’t stop him. He would be too far, and too busy. So what if he died? So what? Who would actually care?

At the moment, his phone pinged. John scowled; he really didn’t want to talk to anyone. But it might be the MOD getting back to him about his paperwork. It was taking a long time to go through.

Reluctantly, John checked his phone.

 

_Turn around._

_  
_

Apparently Mycroft hadn’t taken the message. Over a year and a half since he’d last darkened John’s door, and he still felt the need to play these games? “Fucking hell, Mycroft,” John growled as he turned. “Would you just leave me the fuck—”

John stopped cold. Mycroft Holmes was not standing in his doorway. Irene Adler was. Irene fucking Adler.

Smooth red lips pulled into a smile as she tucked her phone back into her handbag. “Hello, Dr. Watson.”

Silence. Because really? What could John say? Long time no see, and hey, aren’t you supposed to be dead? That didn’t sound like it would work.

“Why are you here?” He might have no idea what to say, but the angry little part of his brain that remembered how much this woman—The Woman—had hurt Sherlock did.

Another one of those soft smiles. “You don’t seem all that surprised to see me.”

He was. “No,” but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “You’ve done this before. The whole escaping death thing, I half expected it.” He didn’t, but if she insisted on being here, he would insist on being a smart ass.

Nodding to the sofa, Irene took a step into the flat. “May I?”

“Sure,” why the fucking hell not?

With an angry grump, John stood up from the desk and plopped himself down into Sherlock’s chair. He never sat there, ever. Usually, he just stared at it. Thinking about the wonderful, idiot, fool of a man who used to sit there. But today, with her here, he would sit in it. He would stake his fucking claim to the memory of Sherlock Holmes. Because she might be here for whoever the fuck knows reason, but Sherlock is _his_. He was John’s best friend, John’s everything. If she thought she could walk in here after he’s been gone for a year and a half (and she’s been dead for two) and pay her condolences now? No. Just no.

“Why are you here?” He asks before she can even get her coat off. Leave it on, he wants to say, because your visit will be brief.

Instead of answering the question (more of the mind games that drove Sherlock up the wall, and did John mention that he hated her for what she’d done to his flatmate?) her eyes swept around the room. “Going somewhere?” She asked.

Half-packed boxes of books littered the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t hear of making him clear out his stuff—their stuff—so someone else could rent the flat while he was gone, but he packed all the same. He wanted to make it easier on her, cleaning it all up after he was killed in action.

“Afghanistan,” he said simply. “I don’t have anything to do here. Might as well make myself useful somewhere else.”

“Yes,” Irene nodded, her long, slender legs sliding over to cross at the ankle. “It’s an interesting way to kill yourself. Probably not the best.”

John’s eyes flicked up to her. Of all the people he’d told—Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. H, all of them—no one guessed that he was going back to Afghanistan to finally make it all end. If they did catch on, no one said anything about it. John was actually starting to think that his death would be a shock. Sadder that way, but not without honor.

“How did you—” he started, but Irene cut him off.

“Sherlock,” she said. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out an envelope. On the front, John saw his name. Very clearly in Sherlock’s handwriting. A lump built in his throat. If Irene could still be alive after all this time, maybe Sherlock—

“It’s not what you think,” this time, she interrupted his thoughts. John dragged his eyes to meet hers again and he knew he was crying. Thinking about Sherlock. Those long fingers holding a pen—just one last time. To write something for John… it was all too much.

Irene was very good at pretending she didn’t notice the wetness in his eyes. She was also very good at keeping quiet while John collected himself. When he seemed to be back together—no longer crying, at least not that she could see—she started again.

“Do you remember the night before?” It was a stupid question; of course John remembered. “Right after you came out of Kitty’s apartment. Sherlock said he had something he needed to do… alone.”

“Yes,” John nodded, eyes locked on the envelope. “Yes,” he said again, but for a different reason. He understood now.

“Exactly,” Irene nodded. But she didn’t need to tell him, John already knew what she was going to say. “From what I understand, he sent out several letters. Instructions for after his death.” The anger in John’s eyes lessened slightly; Irene was smart enough not to call it a suicide. John would never believe that Sherlock killed himself….

“This came in a larger envelope that had instructions for me, but this is for you.” Finally, she extended her arm out, handing the letter to John.

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his hand from shaking as he took it from her. The paper was cool and heavy underneath his fingertips. The posh kind of stationary that only Sherlock would use. For a man that gave no mind to his body, he certainly liked to surround it with the best things. Designer clothes, expensive watches, top-of-the-range laptop, and the most expensive stationary money could buy.

“Would you like me to step out while you read it?” Irene asked. John was staring so intently at the letter that he’d almost forgotten she was there.

“Why?” He asked.

She shrugged, an odd movement for a woman like her. “I was told to deliver it. If the circumstances presented themselves—”

“What circumstances?” John demanded. His eyes were wet again. No, he didn’t care. Let her see him cry, let it happen. Just another way for her to know that Sherlock means more to him than he could ever mean to her. “Tell me _exactly_ what his letter to you said.”

With a heavy sigh, Irene leaned back on the couch. She was prepared for this: angry John. Angry at her for her part in Sherlock’s life, possibly angry at her in general. “If you are reading this, I’m dead—”

It was John’s turn to cut her off. Loudly. With a rude snort. “Sherlock would never say that.”

“If you are reading this, I’m dead and John needs looking after,” she continued, undeterred by the man’s anger. He looked so empty, so worn out… how could she be cross with him? “Specifically, this will come to you if and when John decides to go back to Afghanistan. He was invalided home, but John would find a way back. Dare I even think that Mycroft might help him.” Mycroft didn’t help, John thought. In fact, Mycroft had called him several times trying to talk him out of it. Each call was met with a loud hang-up.

“If that does happen and John is ready to go back into a war zone to get himself killed, you must take the enclosed letter to him,” she kept saying, reciting from memory the words Sherlock had told her to say. “Please do not read it (though I probably don’t have to tell you that) just take it to him. Wait until he reads it and make sure—absolutely sure—that he calls off this Afghanistan nonsense. You can leave while he reads it, but make sure he does.

“I hope I can trust you with this. Sincerely, SH.”

Another few seconds of silence as John let everything sink in. “That’s what he told you?” He said. “Sherlock Holmes, he sent you a letter, telling you to come and see me in case I ever figure out how to get back to Afghanistan?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

John couldn’t stop the laugh that exploded from his chest. “Unbelievable!” He laughed. “Un-fucking-believable!”

Usually, John—the old John Watson that was, the one with the best friend and the great life—wouldn’t swear like this. Yelling at Sherlock was one thing, and the army was one thing, but cussing, and swearing, and snarling out the most vulgar language he could in front of anyone who dared cross his path. Well, John never thought he’d do that. He also never thought Sherlock would leave him like this.

“Well,” his laughter finally subsided, pulling back to vague amusement. “He would know, wouldn’t he? Sherlock Homes. From beyond, he would know that the only thing I could do with my life was go back to Afghanistan.” John’s eyes swept over to Irene again. “And he would send a ghost to give me this,” he waved the letter around. Still sealed.

“And he would tell that person to try and stop me. Because God fucking forbid that John Watson be able to make his own choices!” John was yelling now. Full-out yelling at Irene. He’d done it before, and he didn’t even feel badly about it. “I’m just the one who helped him out—helped the world understand him when he was being too fucking problem child to figure it out for himself! I made sure the world would work around him, so who is he to try and tell me what I can and cannot do? Especially when that used to be my job! A bit not good, Sherlock,” he shouted at the envelope.

Irene didn’t react to the tirade. She could see the grief inside the man, anyone could. How empty and alone Sherlock left him… even if it was for his own safety, this wasn’t the John Watson she’d met. The one that would fight fiercely for anything. Who would check the pulse of the man who just held a gun to his head. This was John destroyed. Sherlock destroyed him. Hopefully, whatever was in that letter would fix it just a bit.

“Do you want me to step outside while you read it?” She asked softly.

Seeming to snap out of his anger spiral, John stopped pacing. His head cocked over to glare at her. “So I should read it, then?” He snapped. “After everything that happened, I should read this? See the last order from the great Sherlock Holmes? Why? Fucking why?”

“Because he loved you,” she said. Still quiet, still in that measured tone, but with all the force her dominatrix voice could give her.

John was looking at her again. During his very justified outburst, John looked everywhere but at her. Glaring at the letter, down at his feet, the chair, the floor, the ceiling, the mirror. Everywhere that wasn’t Irene. But now, he looked. He looked at her and he stopped for a moment. All the anger drained from his face and he was blank again. Empty.

“Sherlock loved you,” she said. “He never said it—neither of you did—but you didn’t need to, did you?

“He’s protecting you, even now, he’s protecting you.” She continued on. John was crying again, which only made her keep going. He had to know this. “Think about it: the last moments he had. The night before he knew he needed to die, he didn’t use that time to stage some miraculous escape,” even though he did, “he used it to lay plans to keep you safe.

“You were the greatest thing in his life, John,” it was the first time she used his name. John doesn’t miss it. Up until then, it was always Dr. Watson. Now, the familiarity of John drove it home. She knew. She knew that they both loved this man, but he didn’t choose her. For once, she wasn’t the one. No, Sherlock only wanted John.

“Don’t throw away what he’s worked so hard to protect.” She whispered.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Irene saw John’s anger fade. The first light she’d seen in his eyes and it was gone. Moving silently back to Sherlock’s chair, he sat down. With careful fingers, he ripped open the top of the envelope. Irene didn’t make a sound as he read.

 

_John,_

_  
_

Sherlock’s pretentiously neat script started.

 

_If you’re reading this, you’re an idiot._

_  
_

John couldn’t help the snort of laughter. The first words from his best friend and it’s an insult. What else would they be?

 

_If you're reading this, that means you’ve decided to go back to Afghanistan. I don’t know how you managed it, but no. You’re not. I won’t let you. And no words about how I’m gone and can’t possibly stop you, I can and I will._

_You have no idea how hard it is for me to leave like this. I haven’t even done it yet—I’m writing this in a Bart’s laboratory, so nothing has happened yet. Nothing and everything. Moriarty and the reporter, they mean nothing. You mean everything. Whatever they do to me, I can handle it. Even if you can’t. Because you need to survive, you need to be better than this. If I have to die to protect you (which I suspect I shall) then you need to accept that protection. Throwing in the towel and eating your gun? Not a good way out. Going to Afghanistan and hoping someone else will feed you a bullet? Also not good._

_Remember when you said that to me? A bit not good. So stop. Stop thinking about your death. Your thinking distracts me, anyways._

_Don’t be an idiot. Keep yourself alive. You never know what you’ll miss when you’re gone._

_S_

_  
_

Small, wet marks appeared on the paper, smudging the ink. John was crying. Again. But this time it wasn’t as… bad, as usual. Now, they were happy tears. Well, as happy as John was capable of (which wasn’t much). But it would do. It would do because Sherlock planned for him. Sherlock cared about him enough to try and look after him, even after….

“Thank you,” John was loathe to say it to the woman who hurt Sherlock so much, but he would say it. She brought him a piece of Sherlock. He would definitely thank her for that.

“You’re welcome.” Irene said.

Silence filled 221B, but this time, it was anything but tense. A man they both cared about—John more than Irene, he would bloody well fight that point to the death—still had a presence in both their lives. However fleeting, he was still there.

Irene was the one to break the silence. “I’m curious,” she said. “Have you kept his room the same?”

“Of course I have,” what the hell kind of stupid question was that?

Her lips turned down into a frown as she stood up from the sofa. “Oh, that’s problematic, but not impossible.”

John had to take a second to understand that… nope. Still didn’t get it. “What?” He asked.

The look she gave him… he knew that look. “You have a spare room, and I need a place to stay,” she smiled. Wide, cunning. The dominatrix was back. Ever since she walked into the flat, John saw a vulnerable side to Irene, a side that confused him more than a bit. But now it made sense.

“You’re not staying here,” he growled. All the anger Sherlock’s letter chased away came roaring back. And it brought some friends.

“Yes I am,” she said simply. “Sherlock left specific instructions: I am to remain with you until I’m sure you’re not going to go through with your plans.” He did, though he probably didn’t mean for her to move in. But she needed a place to lie low. Coming out to meet Sherlock and deliver his message had been very dangerous for her; Mycroft might even know she’s alive. And she can’t have that. 221B is the best place—the place where no one would ever look for her.

John was blinking so hard, his eyes looked about ready to part company with his skull. “No,” he managed to grind out. “No.”

“Yes,” she said again. “I am worried for you, Dr. Watson,” oh, so it was back to the doctor crap. “Do you know how dangerous it was for me to come out into public and deliver this? I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t worried for your safety. Sherlock wants you to keep on even when he’s gone, and I’m going to stay here with you until I believe you’re not going to kill yourself.”

A muscle in John’s jaw jumped in irritation. No, not irritation. Rage. John had never had the desire to strike a woman before, but maybe he’d make an exception for Irene Adler….

“You’re not taking his room,” he barked out. “You are never allowed in his room. _Ever_. Do you understand me?”

She nodded, but that mischievous smile stayed. “Then where will I sleep?”

“For tonight? On the couch,” he didn’t even care about hospitality. Didn’t give a flying fuck. “Tomorrow, I’ll move my stuff and you can take the upstairs bedroom. Because you’re not setting foot into his room. Never. In fact—” John’s anger really was getting the best of him now. “You live in that room. Just that room. I don’t want to see you in the sitting room,” near Sherlock’s chair, his desk, his violin, “in the kitchen,” sitting at Sherlock’s lab/dinner table, “or anywhere else. Got it?”

Not waiting for her answer, John turned on his heel and stomped off towards Sherlock’s room. A year and a half, the only thing he’d changed were the sheets. He spent enough nights in there that it was needed. Well, now all his nights would be in there. Because no one would have Sherlock’s room. No one but him.

As soon as John was gone (slamming the door behind himself louder than necessary) Irene really let her smile show. This was a favor for Sherlock, she wouldn’t deny that. But since when had she ever done anyone a favor and gotten nothing out of the deal?

Just then, her phone chimed. Fishing it out of her bag, Irene read the text. It could only be from one person.

 

_I take it you decided to stay?_

_SH_

Irene smiled to herself.

 

_Of course. The better to watch over him._

 

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to reply.

 

_As long as you keep him safe, I see no problem with it._

_SH_

_You will keep him safe?_

_SH_

 

Smiling to herself, Irene fired off one last text.

 

_Yes_

_  
_


	5. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three long years, Sherlock can finally come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just went through major edits, pretty much a full re-write. The problem was that it was meant to be a PWP and kind of got away from me, so the ending didn't make sense anymore. I posted it as it was, just to see if I could live with it. I couldn't, so I pretty much completely re-wrote the last chapter.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, all mistakes are mine and the finding of typos would be awesome.

**John**

 

“Is it him?” Mycroft asked.

But Sherlock wasn’t listening, he was paying attention to what the body was telling him. After another moment of inspection, he nodded and stood up. “Yes,” the weight of three years of hiding—three years dead—lifted with that one word. “This is the body of Sebastian Moran.”

Three years of looking for and chasing down the assassin Moriarty had on John—this man in specific, it had to be him—and finally, it was over. With the last piece of Moriarty’s organization dismantled, Sherlock could go home.

“Not to bring things down,” too late, Sherlock thought. “But are you sure? Absolutely sure? Are you even sure that Moran was the man he had on John?”

Sherlock didn’t even have to think about that. “Without a doubt. Moran was Moriarty’s best assassin. Who else would he put on my most important friend?” More than a friend. Sherlock’s everything.

At that, Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. He knew that his brother had feelings, very deep ones in fact, but hearing about it and knowing just how far he’d gone to protect the ones he loved… it surprised him. And Mycroft was not accustomed to surprise.

“But how sure are you that this is him?” He pressed. He had to. No one wanted to return Sherlock to John more than Mycroft. He wanted this to be over, a happy ending for once.

Even though he knew Mycroft was just looking out for him, Sherlock could not keep the annoyance from his voice. “Yes, this is him.” Without even being asked, deductions started to roll off his tongue. “Rough skin on the inside of his right palm, specifically on the webbing of his hand and the first metacarpal. Add in the small depression in the skin under his eye and we get his profession: sniper. Sebastian Moran was a sniper.

“Height and build are the same, and oh yes,” Sherlock grabbed the body’s wrist and lifted it for Mycroft to see. “His fingerprints match!” The hand fell with a sickening thump. “This is Sebastian Moran, and Moriarty’s game is finally over. Take me home.”

Mycroft simply nodded.

 

~

 

Three years.

It’d been three years since Sherlock’s Fall. 221B was pretty much the same. All of Sherlock’s stuff in the same place—save the kitchen table/lab, but John did manage to get the boxed up equipment away from Mrs. Hudson—and his room was exactly the same. Though John had been sleeping there for over a year, it was still Sherlock’s room.

Irene left six months ago. Her crock of a story about needing to make sure John well and truly wasn’t going to go back to Afghanistan didn’t fool him for a minute. The only reason she granted Sherlock his favor was because she needed somewhere to stay. She got it, and then she moved on. John was glad for it. Having her around disturbing the silence… it wasn’t right. No one else should be in their flat. No one but he and Sherlock.

Earlier that morning, Mrs. Hudson tried to convince John to go down to the cemetery with her. “Three years, John. Don’t you want to go back?”

No. No he didn’t. He did not want to go back and look at Sherlock’s shiny headstone, and say all the things he never said, because there was nothing left to say. Don’t be dead, Sherlock. That’s all he ever wanted to tell the man. The headstone. Whatever. And he’d already said it. It hadn’t changed a damn thing, so why bother trying again?

John spent most of that morning in the bath, just letting the hot water clear his head. It mostly worked because when he finally climbed from the tub, he didn’t think about the gun Lestrade took away from him three months ago. Greg came around to watch the match and he found it wedged under the sofa cushions. John wasn’t planning on doing anything with it, but apparently having it was bad enough. With a shake of his head, Lestrade took the Browning and told John it would get better soon.

That’s all anyone ever said. That it would get better _soon_. If soon hadn’t happened in the past three years, John wasn’t holding out much hope that it would ever get there.

Toweling his hair dry, John walked out into the kitchen. As soon as he emerged from under the towel, he froze. Around the doorframe, John saw one slender leg. Someone was sitting in the gray chair. In Sherlock’s chair.

The towel made a wet plop as he threw it down, stalking to the sliding kitchen doors. He ripped them open, ready to tell Lestrade, or one of Mycroft’s minions, that no: not that chair. Never that chair. He thought they were all smart enough to know that. Three years, and not one single foreign body had touched that chair. Until today.

John’s mouth flew open with the doors, but no sound came out.

Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting in Sherlock’s chair.

No. It couldn’t be. John blinked. Hard. And opened his eyes. No, still there. Sherlock.

Designer suit complete with fine, fine tailoring and that God damn purple shirt. Looking like he’d been sitting there all along. Like he’d never left.

No. No. Fucking no.

Apparently, John stood there for too long. Staring. Staring at Sherlock. The supposed to be dead man, sitting in his own fucking chair. No.

In a movement that was way too smooth, and way too spry for a corpse, Sherlock stood and buttoned—actually buttoned—his jacket. “John.”

Two steps. That was all it took. Two steps and John made it from the kitchen, around his chair, and across the sitting room. Two steps and he stood in front of Sherlock.

His jaw made a satisfying crack and John swung his fist at it. This time, he didn’t avoid Sherlock’s teeth.

Blood spurted between milk-white fingers when Sherlock brought one hand up to cover his bleeding lips. The other arm dropped to break his fall back into the chair.

“Fucking bastard!” John hissed out between his teeth.

Before Sherlock could come back to himself, John grabbed the not-dead man by his lapels, hauling him up and throwing him down on the desk. His mug of tea skittered across the top and fell to the floor with a crash. But John didn’t care. He only cared about his fist, and Sherlock’s face. Specifically, them meeting again.

“You complete arse!” He shouted. Another punch landed. Then another. He wasn’t hitting as hard as he could (or should) but it was enough. Enough to splatter streaks of red across John’s knuckles. And his dressing gown.

“John—” Sherlock gasped between blows.

“No!” John cut him off, grabbing Sherlock’s lapels again and slamming his back against the desk. “Stupid fucking rat bastards who pretend to be dead for three years don’t get a fucking say!”

Tears streamed down John’s cheeks. He stopped hitting Sherlock, but he would be damned if he let go. Hard, angry fists gripping tight to that pretty suit jacket, ruining it. Served him right. “I don’t care what fucking reason you have,” John sobbed, giving Sherlock another shake. “I don’t care if the safety of the whole bloody world rested on you faking your death, you should’ve told me! You should’ve—”

A choked sob cut through his words. The hands that gripped Sherlock—wanting to tear him limb from limb—became the hands that clung to him. Never wanting to let him go.

“Did you even think?” John bowed forward, resting his head on that thin chest. The suit was already well ruined, and now John’s tears were after the shirt.

“Did you think about anyone else?” He asked, barely able to speak. “Forget about me, but Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Everyone else who ever loved you? And your brother.”

A deep, shuddering gasp. “Fucking Mycroft! He knew, didn’t he?” John wasn’t an idiot—upset, sobbing, irrational, but not an idiot. How would Sherlock pull this off without Mycroft’s help? Staying hidden for so long…. “He’s probably been helping you! And helping you do what? Lie! To me! To everyone! And you just….”

John finally seemed to run out of things to say. His hands curled around Sherlock’s body, holding him, making sure this was real. He still wasn’t completely convinced.

Lips and nose bleeding, little beads of red rolled down his face to mat in John’s hair, but Sherlock didn’t care. He reached out and held John too. Held on tighter. “John,” he whispered out. A hard, ragged sound that could only be described as pure joy. Run through a filter of broken glass and charcoal, but joy none the less. Sherlock had never been this happy in his life. Yes, John was mad at him, so mad…. But that didn’t matter. He was here. He was touching Sherlock. The touching might’ve come through blows, but it still felt like forgiveness.

John would demand an explanation—naturally. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to swan in after three years without explaining himself. So he would. Later. After John calmed down.

A few more minutes of lying on the desk, John limp against his chest, just holding him, Sherlock sat up. He held tight to John as he moved them and placed the man in his chair. But he didn’t take his own seat. As soon as John was settled, sitting bonelessly in the chair, emotionally exhausted after _that_ , Sherlock kneeled down in front of him.

He sat at the foot of John’s chair for the next quarter of an hour. Watching the man. John looked back at him. His fingers twitched out to touch Sherlock’s cheek, rub over one of the bruises. He couldn’t do any more than that; the fight, their argument… John didn’t have anything left right now.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked softly. As best he could, John nodded. “Bed?” Again, John nodded.

Without another word, Sherlock climbed up from the floor and pulled John to his feet. Supporting all of John’s weight, he walked them to the bedroom. After he slept, John would demand answers, and Sherlock would bloody well give them. For now, he would rest, and hope to God that this wasn’t all just a dream.

 

~

 

A few hours later, John opened his eyes to a bit of a shock. Unearthly blue looked back at him. Oh thank God, it wasn’t a dream. Sherlock was here, actually here. Everything was as it should be, not—

John didn’t even think as he reached out and pulled Sherlock’s hand from his lap. The bloody idiot was sitting—fully clothed—on top of the bedspread as John laid under the covers, his dressing gown had gone… somewhere.

Sherlock’s face was something of a horror story. An angry, red split made its way through both lips, and a butterfly plaster pinching closed the cut across his cheek. All colors of bruise decorated the right side of Sherlock’s face, but he didn’t look cross about it. Not at all. Because he probably knew he deserved it.

But his relief at seeing the man still there would not keep John from his explanation. Oh no. Squeezing those fingers firmly, he sat up a bit and looked Sherlock dead in the eyes. “Tell me.” He said.

“That day on the roof,” Sherlock began. He thought it would be hard finally saying this out loud. All the sticky emotions, he didn’t know how to explain them… but John would understand. He would hear the emotions between the bare facts. That’s what Sherlock always loved about him. “Moriarty gave me a choice: either I died, or you did. And Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Three assassins, one for each of you. If I didn’t jump, he would kill you all.

“The man he had trained on you, specifically, his name was Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty’s best assassin. Who else would he put on you? A top weapon,” because that’s all Moran was to Moriarty, a weapon, “to take out the most important person. Friends protect each other, John. This whole time, I was just protecting you.”

For once, John’s own words thrown back at him weren’t there to make him angry. The last thing he ever said to Sherlock’s face, and the man had taken it to heart: friends protect each other. Sherlock protected John.

“How?” He whispered. “How’d you do it?” He had to know that. At the very least, he had to know how he didn’t know anything about this.

“Molly,” Sherlock said. “She helped me arrange things. Then Mycroft.” John rolled his eyes, he saw that one coming a mile off. “I’ve been staying at his home when I needed to. Then Lestrade found out—”

“What?” John sputtered. He sat up sharply and glared out at Sherlock. But he didn’t let go of his hand. “Greg knew?”

Sherlock nodded. “After Scotland Yard sacked him—don’t worry, I’ll fix that—he came to Mycroft for a job. I needed someone to look after you.” As simple as that.

John gave a snort of disgust. “So, all those times he popped ‘round to get me out of the flat, he was doing that on your order?”

Pause. “It wasn’t that he was pretending. Lestrade really did want to help. Had I really been dead, he probably would’ve done it all on his own.” Maybe.

John was sitting up now, glaring at Sherlock with his mouth hanging open in shock. “Who else?” He asked. “Irene, and that fucking letter? Did you do that too?” Of course he did, John didn’t even need to ask the question.

“Lestrade and Molly told me you found a way back to Afghanistan. Neither could talk you out of it, so I thought a voice from the grave would do nicely.” Another pause. “I didn’t tell her to move in.”

“Right,” John nodded. “Let me see if I’m getting this: in order to keep me safe from Moriarty’s assassin, you faked your death for three years—three fucking years—and then proceeded to have all our friends spy on me? Do I have that right?” A minute ago, John thought his anger had faded. Turned out: no.

“I did what I had to in order to protect you. And no—I will not apologize for that.” Sherlock said, his jaw tight.

“Fine,” John nodded. “Fine. Just—” he sputtered. Sherlock was just sitting there, all broken and bandaged, telling John that he did it to keep him safe. How could he be angry about that? Didn’t matter, he was still going to try.

“No,” he decided. “No, not fine. You—” John reached out again, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s lapels again, pulling him down until they were nose to nose. “What you did to me, Sherlock,” he sighed, his eyes falling shut. “I want an apology. Tell me you’re sorry. For all of it—making me think—”

John didn’t get to finish. Pressed nose to nose, Sherlock didn’t have to move far to touch their lips together. So he did. The shorter man’s lips were warm and soft underneath his, and Sherlock couldn’t help but moan. He’d wanted to kiss John for so long… so what if this was mostly to shut him up? That didn’t mean the feelings weren’t real.

Sherlock was the first to pull back. When he thought John sufficiently silenced, he tried to pull away. Emphasis on _try_. John’s hand held firm to his coat. And suddenly they were moving, rolling over until Sherlock’s back hit the mattress.

Strong, capable fingers threaded open the buttons of his shirt. Sometimes, tearing the fabric. Sherlock didn’t care, he could have a hundred shirts. Those same hands drifted down to his trousers and started pulling at his flies.

“Don’t think you’ve fooled me. I know you only did that to shut me up,” John mumbled against his lips. “We are going to have a proper talk about this—a long, proper talk. But now…” Sherlock tipped his chin up for another kiss and the words trailed off. Yes, they would talk. Later. Not now.

Now was the time for John’s warm fingers against his chest, sliding down to grip his bare hips and grind their cocks together. Sherlock moaned, a ‘could hear it from the rafters, the neighbors might complain’ kind of moan.

“John!” He groaned.

John’s hands on him stopped moving. No! “Is this—”

“Yes,” he didn’t even let him finish. Reaching up, Sherlock wound his fingers in John’s short hair, pulling him closer, pressing their lips together again. “Yes, it’s fine,” amazing, wonderful, bloody fantastic, any would do. “Don’t stop.” Never stop.

A wide, glorious smile spread across John’s face and he pressed in for another kiss. Pushing against Sherlock’s broken lips probably wasn’t the best idea, but John didn’t seem to remember and Sherlock wasn’t about to tell him.

Then, John’s tongue snaked out to join the party and he tasted the blood. He was pulling back. “Don’t!” Sherlock panted. Strong fingers wrapped around the back of John’s neck, pulling him back down close. “Don’t stop kissing me.”

“Your lips are bleeding,” he whispered back, his lips equally as bloody. “But don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” Instead, John ducked his head and started unleashing those same lips and teeth on Sherlock’s neck. Yes, that would do.

Soon enough, simple skin contact (so much skin) wasn’t enough. “John, John,” Sherlock breathed. “Please,” he didn’t know what he was asking for, only that he needed more. And John would know exactly what.

“Yes,” John nodded and pulled back. That wasn’t what Sherlock wanted. But before he could pull the man back, he already was. In his hand, a bottle of lotion that usually rested on the bedside table for… obvious reasons. “I don’t have actual lube,” John started.

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s fine.” Grinning so large it looked about to split his face, John poured some of the lotion into his hand, smearing it over his fingers and reaching forward.

The first slick digit to work its way inside of Sherlock made him inhale. Sharp and surprised. The second digit was a bit more uncomfortable, but John was gentle. Slowly working the muscle, Sherlock relaxed and the feeling of John inside of him… oh, it was wonderful.

The third finger was really too much. Sherlock was ready, couldn’t they just start? “John,” he groaned, hips pushing down to get more of those fingers. “Please.”

John appeared to ignore him, spending another moment to work Sherlock open. As soon as John thought Sherlock was ready (and not one moment sooner) he pulled his fingers out. The detective moaned at the loss of contact. “Shush,” John whispered, hand already smoothing more of the lotion over his own cock. “Just wait.”

He didn’t have to wait long.

Wrapping Sherlock’s long, long legs around his hips, John lined up and pressed in. Slowly, inch by glorious inch, until he was in to the hilt. Inside of Sherlock. After so long.

Forget the Fall, forget the past three years, forget everything. This is all John really wanted. The only reason they hadn’t had it before was because of Sherlock…. Married to his work. Not his area. And John respected that. He loved the man in any way he would have him. And now? If Sherlock wanted him this way? Sherlock could have him. All of him.

His lips still pressed to Sherlock’s neck, John thrust forward. Sherlock moaned, the skin of his throat vibrating under John’s kiss. Wonderful. Beautiful. John could die like this. Actually, strike that, he could _live_ like this. Forever. Nothing but he and Sherlock. No more games, no more lies, and no fucking Moriarty.

“Don’t think,” John panted, his breath coming in halting gusts as he pressed into Sherlock. “I’ve forgiven you.” He never thought he’d see this man reduced to a quivering, speechless mass. And he never would’ve laid money on him being the one to do it. “Three years, Sherlock,” Sherlock moaned, heels pressing against John’s back a little harder. “We are not done talking.”

“Yes, we are.”

With a sharp tug to the back of his hair, Sherlock pulled John’s head up and smashed their lips together again. John wanted to tell Sherlock no, don’t aggravate the injury that he should probably take a look at. He wanted to say a million different things. Yell at him for lying, cry for joy because he came back. Everything and nothing, John wanted it all. For now though, this would do.

It always would.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> It has been translated into Chinese (Mandarin, I'm assuming) here: http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=58674&page=1&extra=#pid1067453


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